On the other side of Baddon Plane, Morgon's grey-clad soldiers were forming into line. Tom watched the tightly disciplined ranks then turned his attention to his own forces. The contrast could not have been greater.
The brightly dressed tribesmen were gathering about their clan chieftains, shouting battle cries. Most were armed with a slashing sword and a small circular shield. Some wore body armour. Others were stripped to the waist.
Standards poked up everywhere. Bronze animal heads with gaping mouths were mounted on painted poles. Yellow windsocks streamed out behind them and wooden tongues clattered in bronze mouths. Drums beat, pipes wailed and chariot horns blared.
Tom wondered if the tribesmen were capable of doing anything without making a huge amount of noise. He'd given up trying to train them to the standards of Morgon's troops. The most he could hope for was a sort of organised mayhem that would get them together in time to spring his trap.
For the moment, Morgan was doing as expected. Tom couldn't fault the commander of the Thirteenth Legion. Under the circumstances he would have done the same. That was the beauty of the situation. His opponent was behaving predictably.
His attention turned to the huge cattle pen at the foot of the bank on which he was standing. That was another source of his worries. The pen was filled with mountain men and the cattle they had seized on their way down from the north. The painted savages were his wild card. They were the force which would rip Morgon's ranks apart.
A naked man on a blindfolded bull attracted his attention. His entire body was covered in tattoos. It was difficult to tell what was real and what was added. He had more arms, legs and penises than a dozen warriors put together. Tom decided that, if he was attacked by such an apparition, he'd strike at the midpoint and ignore the rest.
He returned his attention to the battlefield. His main force was encamped on a low ridge. Their covered wagons were arranged in a defensive ring. Tom was alarmed to see small children on the roofs. His whole being convulsed.
He grabbed Thunder's arm.
'I gave orders for those carts to be moved.'
The little man adjusted his cloak.
'It is a time-honoured custom for families to accompany their warriors into battle.'
'Time honoured.' Tom exploded. 'That's what you say when you can't think of anything better.'
'It is an ancient tradition ...'
Tom shut his ears. There was no point in arguing. The tribesmen had their way of doing things and it would take an eternity to change them. Right now, he had more pressing problems. Morgon was on the march. His army was advancing on a broad front: grey-clad infantry flanked by their native allies.